


someday you will be loved

by TeresaChristina



Category: Fleetwood Mac (Band)
Genre: Extramarital Affairs, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, My First Work in This Fandom, One Shot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 05:20:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17238152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeresaChristina/pseuds/TeresaChristina
Summary: she'll let you in her house if you come knockin' late at night...One shot from Lindsey's POV, written under the influence of Springsteen and a GIF.





	someday you will be loved

**Author's Note:**

> real people. fake story. mild sexual content. feedback will be cherished.

It doesn't happen often. Much less often than he'd like, in fact. But when it does happen, it's always the same. 

He's always the one to reach out first. It's their unspoken agreement, one of many, and he understands why. He's the one with the family at home, and that's a world she won't intrude in. He's the one with more to lose, so he's the one who should take the risk.

He always promised himself, and her, that this wouldn't affect his kids in any way. They were his first priority when he wasn't out on the road, and she insisted that he not give up time with them for her sake. But now the kids are growing up, at the age where they're more interested in spending their weekends going to slumber parties and school dances than they are in hanging out with their old man, so he finds himself being free to seek her out more often.

"Business," he always offers by way of explanation to his wife, and she'll raise her eyebrows but say nothing. He thinks she's just tired of fighting what's inevitable. They both are.

He always calls before he comes by. For one, it gives her a chance to clear the place of whatever girlfriends are hanging around that day. Sometimes he'll encounter a straggler or two in passing, and he'll get an eye roll or a protective glare. _We're onto you. Don't fuck it up- again._

But the main reason he always calls ahead is that she insists she needs the time to get ready. He's told her so many times that it's not necessary, that he's seen her when she's been made up for magazine covers and when she's been violently ill and everything in between, but now he understands that it's part of the ritual for her. He can't exactly take her out on a proper date, so instead she'll spend an hour doing her hair and makeup and deciding on something to wear even though it's going to end up on the floor in minutes anyway.

He always brings her flowers. At first he thought it felt cheap, just slightly better than leaving cash on the nightstand when he had to leave before the sun came up. _Sorry I've gotta go, but you can look at these and maybe you'll forget that I'm back in bed with my wife_. She loved it, though, and every single time her eyes light up just like they did when they were 22 year old kids and he plucked a rose from his neighbor's garden to leave on the windshield of her car. 

He always points out that she could have it all- the dates, the flowers, and, as much as he hates thinking about it, the sex- with someone else. She laughs him off and says _At my age? Please. Men this age only want women young enough to be their daughters._ He ignores the implied slight and tells her that she could easily find someone young enough to be her grandson. _Oh no. I'd be way too much for them to handle_ , she says, and he has to admit she might be right. 

Lord knows, she's still too much for him. Sometimes.

_I just want you to be happy_ , he always says, and it's only partially a lie. He wants her happy, yes, but he wants to be the one (the only one) making her that way. He supposes it's a step up from when he was younger and wanted her to be miserable with someone else, just hoping that she would suffer enough to realize what she'd lost. She reached that point a long time ago, he's pretty sure, but by then it was too late for them so he figures that the least he can do is to want her to be happy.

(It would still kill him to see her with someone else, though. He's the same old selfish bastard he's always been, but she doesn't have to know it).

She always brushes him off when he starts talking like that, promising him that she's fine. She'll make it into a joke, saying _if you want me to be happy, then why the hell do you keep hanging around tormenting me?_ And it's not a complete lie, not when they still have the ability to send each other into a rage with very little provocation. That hasn't changed. Only now, she's less likely to shove him against the wall and yank his zipper down, and more likely to shove him out the door and leave him with a serious case of blue balls. 

He really, really hates that. There aren't many things that he misses about the relationship they had when they were 30, but the ability to simultaneously freeze each other out while also having mind-blowing sex certainly had its perks. It tore both of them up inside, sure, but at least he still had a way to reach her. Now she just goes silent. She could stay that way for years on end, he knows she has that capacity, and that terrifies him in a way that her younger self's drug-fueled tantrums never did. 

But thank God, it hasn't come to that point. Not since they both hit their 60s, at least, and he doesn't know if it's maturity or fatigue or just the ever-present knowledge that time isn't as infinite as it was decades ago. That's why when he comes over, they don't bother to make small talk or unwind with a drink. There will be a chance for all of that later on. If left to their own devices for too long, they'll inevitably begin bickering over some small issue, and their nights together are too few to end prematurely with the door being slammed in his face.

And so their first (and usually only) stop is the master bedroom, which is always lit by candlelight whether it's 10:30 at night or 4:30 in the afternoon. He thinks that again it's part of the ritual for her, same as the makeup and the lacy underwear that he actually prefers her without. The last time he was there, he peeled off her black leggings to find nothing underneath, and he very nearly came in his pants like a 16 year old kid. As it was, he couldn't even wait until she was completely undressed before burying himself inside her. 

That time he did what was necessary to avoid embarrassing himself, but he usually takes his time. He makes sure she comes first, literally and figuratively, because he feels like she deserves that much. _how long has it been since you've done this with someone else?_ , he asked her once, and when she didn't slap him just for asking...well, he had his answer. 

Man, he's one lucky son of a bitch. 

"All those complications, and for what?" she had replied. "I don't need that shit."

He hummed in response, slowly caressing the inside of her thigh. "So you just get yourself off and think of me."

"Maybe," she said, smirking.

"Then maybe I don't want to compete with your hand." He moved his own hand higher, one finger tracing down her center as she spread her legs further apart. "Would you stop? If I told you to?" 

She swallowed hard and nodded.

"Good girl." He leaned down and kissed her forehead, his thumb circling her clit. "But I don't want you to. I’d rather think about you screaming my name when you come."

She closes her eyes and moans as he buries his face in between her legs and he wonders again why he's such a lucky bastard. 

After all this time, he knows what to do when he wants to make her come hard and fast, or he can draw it out until she's shaking all over and begging him for it. Usually he'll do both. She still smells, tastes the same way she did 40 years ago and he's just as addicted to it as he was then.

Of course, neither of them are in the same physical shape as they were in the 70s. They move more slowly, both out of necessity and out of the desire to prolong every precious second they spend tangled up in each other. But even when they're both spent and lying together in the dark, he's stroking her face and tracing patterns across her bare skin, nuzzling the spot in between her breasts and smoothing his palm over the curves of her ass because he just can't _not_ be touching her. 

And this is the time when they can finally talk, when they're too sated and intertwined to fight. But still they keep the conversation from getting too heavy, sticking to topics like mutual friends and Stevie's dogs and whatever she's been watching on Netflix lately. Sometimes they reminisce about the old days, but only the parts that make them laugh. Sometimes he tells her stories about what the kids are up to, but only if she asks first. 

They never talk about his wife.

They never talk about the future either, except when he kisses her goodbye and says _I'll see you next time_. She watches him leave from the bedroom, but she lets him see himself out of the house. He seldom stays overnight, only on the rare occasion that his family is away and so he won't be missed. 

_You're too old to do the walk of shame_ , she said once when he asked to stay. The only time she'll allow it is when they're on the road, when they'll wander in and out of adjoining hotel suites that spare them from the knowing looks of their bandmates. There they can eat together, shower together, wake up together in a bedroom that has to be at least four times the size of their first apartment. For that brief period of time, she’ll let him occupy her bed a little longer- just long enough for him to start wondering _what if?_

But it never lasts. Tour life isn’t reality, and he knows that. One of these tours is going to be their final one, and he knows that too. Someday he'll knock on her her door, _not_ knowing it was the last time. 

Because he's always the one to reach out, but she may not always be willing to let him in.


End file.
